String Theory
by Beguile
Summary: "If space is infinite then there's tons of yous out there and tons of mes." "I like that thought. Somewhere out there, I'm having a good time." (Rabbit Hole) Two different Molly Fosters. Two different Will Grahams. Just two out of innumerable possibilities. AU.
1. String Theory

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: "If space is infinite then there's tons of yous out there and tons of mes."

"I like that thought. Somewhere out there, I'm having a good time." (_Rabbit Hole_)

Two different Molly Fosters. Two different Will Grahams. Just two out of innumerable possibilities. AU.

Author's Notes: In the movie _Red Dragon_, Molly and Will are married prior to Hannibal's arrest; in the novel and series, they don't meet until after the good doctor is behind bars. I'm being haunted by both incarnations of the character – the Molly before and the Molly after. This is a fic I've been playing with for a while. It started with the alt version of Molly in _5 Reasons _and _Holding Back the Night_. I've since expanded to include a more canonical version of the character. One part will therefore follow the series; the other will speculate on the third season (when Fuller says Molly will be introduced).

This is about to get experimental.

* * *

String Theory

-Great Falls, Virginia-

The first time they met, Will Graham didn't look at her once.

He also brought a urine sample – unsolicited but, given the subject of the appointment, appreciated nonetheless – from the dog in question, mopped up from the living room floor that morning. It was then that Molly Foster learned the only thing weirder than not being looked at was not being looked at while being handed a recycled margarine container full of fresh dog urine.

And the only thing weirder than that was the silence that followed. Will was totally fixated on his dog, his dog was totally fixated on him, and the only indication either were paying any attention was the way they anticipated her. They saw her coming a mile away, even when neither was looking in her general direction.

She called him the next day with the results of the test: urinary tract infection. Will would have to come by and pick up antibiotics. Molly was heading out on a call when he arrived, so she intercepted him at the door to the veterinary office.

He backed away first, almost three feet from her, and his eyes stayed glued to the ground in the opposite direction. Molly might as well have drenched him in gasoline. "Sorry," she said, though she had no idea what for, and then backed out of the doorway to clear a path.

Will kept his head down the entire time.

Two weeks later, Will was back in the office, this time with a honey-coloured collie-cross on the examination table. He was caught somewhere between livid and nauseated, white-knuckled but face twisted in physical pain. He held a reassuring hand on the whimpering dog's back, "Someone just ran her over and then left her on the side of the highway."

"She's going lose the leg," Molly noted sadly. That much was obvious. The mangled limb twitched and kicked on the table in time with every miserable whine. Pulling on her gloves, Molly set to work. "I'll get her something for the pain. You don't..." his eyes were lost in the dog again, and Molly almost didn't see the need in finishing her sentence. He clearly wasn't listening. Except that his posture tilted a second later and he was. "You don't need to stay, you know."

"I know."

There wasn't a shred of competition in his voice. Will had the rare ability to voice certainty without sounding like he was on a power trip, and Molly wasn't sure if that scared or impressed her just yet. "I'm a little surprised you want to," she started gathering supplies, "Most people just drop strays off here like they're playing Knock-Knock-Ginger."

"I'm not like most people."

Molly shook her head, "No, you're not." She couldn't think of a single person Will Graham was really like.

The atmosphere in the room shifted, as if Will had only just realized how aberrant his behaviour really was. He lifted his gaze from the dog and swatted his gaze back and forth over the tiles – searching, imploring. Like an actor who just broke character and was trying to find their way back into a scene. Molly shuffled back and out of the room before giving any indication that she noticed. The dog was suffering; Will could wait.

When she returned, Molly found that he had shifted back into his uncomfortable self. Almost. Will's movements were smoother, less urgent. He stroked the dog as Molly administered the injection. She was even able to hover within inches of him before he pulled away, and this time, Will did so without a look of displeasure.

"Can we start over?" he asked.

Molly looked up from the dog's leg in surprise. Will's head was raised. His eyes were glued to the tile, but they flicked towards her every once in a while to every place that wasn't her eyes: her shoulder, her neck, her hands, her hair. Oddly enough, she didn't feel the least bit catalogued. Something about Will's mannerisms – his subdued expression, the slight furrow in his brow – told her she had already been understood as a whole. He simply struggled to find a part of her that didn't lead to a larger, more expansive story.

"I don't think we ever really started," she remarked pointedly, staring into the blank expanse of his face. Will seemed to grow calmer with every passing moment. It was then Molly's turn to feel insecure. She had never made an introduction two weeks after meeting someone for the first time. "I'm…I'm Dr. Foster. Molly Foster."

"Will Graham," his eyes sprang up at the last second to meet hers before falling back towards the ground.

Social convention steered the rest of their conversation. "Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Graham," Molly said.

He nodded shakily, still not meeting her eyes. "Nice to finally meet you, Dr. Foster."

* * *

-Marathon, Florida-

The first time they met, Will Graham didn't look at her once.

Molly had followed a brood of dogs from the beach into the boatyard, catching up with them in a maze of old motors and battered hulls. "Hey," she knelt down amongst them, searching for collars or tags. They looked well fed and groomed, but that didn't mean anything close to the water. Dogs like these were cared for by tourists: fed from their picnic baskets and bathed from play in the ocean. She wasn't about to leave without making sure they were okay.

They licked her cheeks, her collarbone, her neck; they nuzzled her hands, arms, and shoulders. Molly was very quickly overrun. "Oh, hello," she ruffled the neck on a beautiful mottled retriever. "Who's your person, huh? Where's home?"

As if in response, the retriever trotted several paces down the way, turning around only when Molly hadn't started to follow. She rose to her feet and shuffled along through the sand, navigating her way through the remaining dogs towards the retriever.

Beyond the corpses of boats lay a ramshackle trailer. A chill crept down Molly's spine, and a tremor ran through her arms. The place looked vacant, neglected. Ghostly. She got the faintest impression someone had died there, that the dogs were leading her to a body.

The retriever looked back at her from the stoop, still inviting her, but Molly couldn't go any further. Her legs wouldn't move.

A whistle and click drew the retriever's attention. Molly watched as a man walked into view: slight build, brown curls, t-shirt soaked with ocean and perspiration. The owner? She hoped so; the feeling of walking over a grave was growing stronger.

He held a hand out to the retriever as he strode past. Molly knelt back down to be with the rest of the dogs. She felt stupid for asking, but a group this big couldn't belong to just one person. Other people weren't suckers for strays like her. "Hey," she said pleasantly, smiling as the dogs kissed her, "are all of them yours?"

No answer. Molly scrubbed at the scruff of the Jack Russell's neck. Maybe he hadn't heard her. "Pretty sizeable collection. Seven strays?"

Still nothing. The man didn't even turn around. His posture gave no indication she was even being acknowledged. Molly stroked the fluffy border collie to curb her frustration. She didn't like being ignored. "Most people don't even want one."  
The man sighed. He still hadn't turned at all, focused as he was on the retriever. "I'm not…I'm not like most people."

Molly smiled, feeling the chill dispel at long last from her bones. She rose from the dogs, brushing the sand from her skirt, "They don't look like Florida dogs."

"They're not," he finally turned to reveal his profile. Molly tried to see more, but he appeared to intentionally keep his body hidden from view. "Who uh…who are you?"

"I'm Molly," she petted another of his mutts. "Molly Foster. I own a shop in town."

Satisfied, he looked back towards his trailer door and started away.

"Who are you?" she called after him.

He stopped. Molly was surprised. She had expected him to keep walking. Instead, she got another glimpse of his profile, enough to see him flash a small, fragile smile. The gesture was forced and sad. Molly felt her heart break. Her mind flittered between two extremes, between relief that there was the man was alive and the terrifying notion that she should have walked away when she had the chance.

"Will," the man said half-heartedly. "My name's Will."  
"Nice to meet you, Will," she said.

He nodded. "Nice to meet you too."

* * *

Happy reading!


	2. The Curious Incident of the Dog

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: "If space is infinite then there's tons of yous out there and tons of mes."

"I like that thought. Somewhere out there, I'm having a good time." (_Rabbit Hole_)

Two different Molly Fosters. Two different Will Grahams. Just two out of innumerable possibilities. AU.

Author's Notes: This story has given me a lot of pause. I wasn't quite sure how I was going to handle writing two separate universes without being boring and repetitive. That's when I decided to just make this a straight-up world collision. Enjoy!

* * *

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime

Marathon, Florida

The collie was new. She appeared in a flash of sunset, or so it appeared to Will, though she must have simply been hiding amidst his other dogs on their great race down the beach.

Her coat blazed copper in the setting sun. There was no collar about her neck, but Will knew she wasn't a stray. Her right foreleg was gone and neatly replaced with a bald patch of skin that, while still knitting, did nothing to stop her fun. Few veterinarians would have performed an amputation on a stray. Euthanasia was cheaper and required less effort.

Will checked the beach for her owner. No candidates presented themselves. A small handful of people dotted the shore, but they were too preoccupied with the sunset or each other to be concerned with the dogs. There was no one lurking in the small cluster of palm trees nearby either. Somehow, the collie had found her way into his pack of mutts without a single instance of in-fighting and Will noticing.

Her strangeness registered as being inconsequential, and Will welcomed that. He welcomed the sedate banality of life in Florida, the comfort of fixing boat motors, the company of dogs, the interminable length of hours. He felt clear and untethered. Free floating like a boat in a placid cove. Better still, the feeling was accessible at any time. He walked twenty paces from his trailer and ended up outside himself.

Just what he needed when Hannibal Lecter decided to send a letter.

Will wouldn't have opened it, not for anything, had he known the sender. Incarceration gave the doctor distance though, so Will had torn into the envelope and found himself staring at the carefully penned script written in the doctor's fine hand. The sky drowned out most of what the doctor had written from his memory, but some words still remained. Something about scars, something about friendship, something about whether or not he was dreaming: Will could hear Lecter's voice purring in his head again. Only the water had given him any kind of relief.

Barely a year had passed since their last encounter. Will's wound still throbbed with phantom pains. He would wake up with the linoleum knife still carving its way through his midriff. His intestines spilling on the floor. The air thick with the scent of his own bowels. Outside, he could diffuse. He followed the dogs on their long treks in the surf; he stood with the waves lapping at his ankles and let himself be carried far out to sea, to the places where the water and sky were the exact same place. Inside – the trailer, himself, same difference really – he was still screaming most of the time.

He cast a glance over his shoulder to the trailer behind him. The door was swinging open on its hinges. Will hadn't even bothered to close it after opening the letter. He could still see the rich, white paper lying on the floor. Dr. Lecter's silhouette passed over the back wall. Will turned away and stared back at the dogs. They made one last loop of the beach, the collie trailing behind now, and then headed straight for him.

Beneath the salt, surf, and sand, Will swore he caught the scents of antiseptic and pine. Just how fresh was the collie's amputation? He ministered to his dogs first, and then reached towards the newcomer. She nuzzled her face against his palm immediately. No need for her to smell Will: she already knew him.

"Hi."

Will looked up in surprise. Human voices so rarely disturbed him here, especially those from outside his head.

She was wearing yellow. He never forgot that, or the way she so effortlessly ingratiated herself in the company of his dogs.

Will was glued to his spot and not just because of the letter waiting for him in the trailer. The last time he had been in someone's company had been to say goodbye to Alana Bloom before leaving for Florida. Their parting exchange didn't serve as a good model for a conversation. Will's eyes danced along the horizon, searching for somewhere that didn't have to do with _her_. With the freckles on her shoulders, the slope of her collarbones, the round, wide, openness of her eyes. He eventually ended up looking at the dogs instead.

The collie was gone.

He searched the beach. "Something wrong?" she asked. Will swallowed hard. There was no sign of the dog anywhere.

"Thought I saw something…" he muttered, scrambling for cognitive purchase. He found none. "I have to go."

* * *

Great Fall, Virginia

The collie was gone. Molly threw open the door of the kennel and slammed her hands around the metal interior, as if the dog could be hiding somewhere in a steel box. She then made another frantic search of the corridor and the exam rooms. The dog was nowhere to be found.

"Did someone come for the collie?" Molly asked the tech at the front desk. He answered in the negative. "Then where is she?"

"She was in the cage a minute ago."

"Yeah, well she's not there now," Molly rushed off again.

The kennel was still empty when she got back there. So was the corridor, so were the exam rooms, so were the back alley and open lots surrounding the clinic. Molly stood in the parking lot, hands on her hips, trying and failing to wrap her head around a dog still recovering from a traumatic amputation had somehow escaped from a locked, steel hole-in-the-wall. She was still standing there when Will Graham pulled up in the parking lot.

"Lost something?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, "I've lost your dog."

Now it was his turn to wrap his head around the idea. "You lost my dog," he repeated. Molly nodded. "Were you taking her out for a walk?"

"I don't even know how she got out of the kennel."

"She couldn't have gone far."

"No."

"Did anyone see her go outside?"

"Nobody saw her outside of the kennel," Molly sighed. She turned back towards the clinic. "I don't know how she could have escaped." Her amputated leg notwithstanding, the collie's kennel door was still locked when Molly found it just moments ago.

Will said nothing. He scanned the street for any signs of a runaway dog. "She couldn't have made it far."

"No," Molly sighed again, louder this time. The dog's disappearance didn't make any sense!

The door to the clinic flew open. "Dr. Foster?" the technician asked.

"Yes?" she couldn't tear her eyes from the street.

"The collie you're looking for? She's locked up in the back."

"She's what?" Molly charged into the building. Will followed at a respectable distance. The tech led them both to the kennels in the back, where sure enough, the collie was carefully shut away. She was standing on her three remaining legs, tail wagging happily, ready to go home.

"Unbelievable," Molly breathed. She watched in awe as the technician opened the door to the kennel. The collie limped towards Will's outstretched hands. "She wasn't there. I know she wasn't there."

The technician shrugged, "I don't know what to tell you, Dr. Foster. She's there now." He walked back to the front desk.

"One of the assistants must have taken her," Molly noted, to no one but herself, she realized. Will was in his own world again, alone with the dog, and there was nothing that could compel him to return to the conversation. The level of devotion he displayed never ceased to amaze her. She had to take several steps away from the scene to clear her head and catch her breath. The whole event just seemed so impossible.

"Her feet are wet."

"What?" Molly hadn't understood a word of that.

"Her feet," Will said, pointing, "they're wet."  
"Why would they be wet?" she marched over and bent down. Sure enough, all three of the dog's paws were soaking wet. There were even small tufts of wet fur dotting her body. Molly tugged the blanket from the base of the kennel and dabbed the areas gently. "This isn't from a bath."

"Salt water."

"Salt water?"

"It's salt water," Will remarked. "She's been running in salt water."

"Now that she actually can't have been."

Except that when she leaned close enough and smelled, the smell of antiseptic dispersed to reveal an underlying scent of sand and surf. Molly opened her mouth to explain, but there were absolutely no words.


	3. Wild Horses

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: "If space is infinite then there's tons of yous out there and tons of mes."

"I like that thought. Somewhere out there, I'm having a good time." (_Rabbit Hole_)

Two different Molly Fosters. Two different Will Grahams. Just two out of innumerable possibilities. AU.

Author's Notes: Apologies for the delay! I have been caught between work, a play, and reading. Sweet reading!

Speaking of reading, please enjoy yourselves with this installment!

* * *

Wild Horses

Wolf Trap, Virginia

Will expected a coyote. He maintained a safe distance from the shadow struggling in the branches but strafed around to get a better look. A moment of observation confirmed that the shadow was human. Female. Tall, long hair, colourful vocabulary. Her words for the tree were not pleasant. She slammed a palm against the torch in her hand to get it working again. "I'm not trespassing," she explained, shining the light against the ground. "A horse got loose from your neighbour's paddock."

Will wasn't listening. He couldn't listen over the ringing in his ears, the phantom tugging of branches against his scalp. There were still tufts of the woman's hair locked in a wrestling match with the tree. He had no choice but to walk forward and help detangle her.

"You haven't happened to see a horse around, have you?" her fingers combed over Will's as they set about freeing her from the branches. Up close, he could finally place her voice. Molly Foster, the veterinarian from Great Falls, was making a house call. "Thank you," she said upon liberation.

"Isn't this more of a job for animal control, Doctor?" Will had to ask.

Molly set her jaw and looked him straight in the eye. He dodged her stare. "He's a very sick horse," she replied. "The owners are worried it's eastern equine encephalitis."

"You're just trying to give him a comfortable place to die then," Will said uncomfortably, wishing she would stop looking at him.

"Formalize my diagnosis mainly. Restless wandering is a pretty good indication…I take it you haven't seen him?" Will shook his head. Molly nodded. "Thanks for your time," she said and started off into the forest again. "Shout if you see him, will you?"

He watched her disappear into the trees, allowing her guardedness, her intensity, her focus, to drain out of him before daring to turn away. Winston greeted him, staring intently at Will as if reminding him of something he had forgotten to do.

There was no going back to the house now. Will sighed. He plunged into the trees after Molly.

* * *

Marathon, Florida

Will didn't go to bars, not normally. Drinking made him sensitive. Being around people made him vulnerable. He would suck back Scotch and stare at himself through the bartender's eyes. See the pathetic wretch he had become, the lonely, sunburnt, scarred sack of flesh he was now. Will had never possessed very high self-esteem, but he had just enough to hate everything that Hannibal had made him.

Another Scotch appeared in front of him, right next to his empty glass. Will lifted his eyes from the bar to find the brunette from the beach at his side with a tumbler of whatever-he's-having at her fingertips. "Rumour had it you never leave the beach," she said by way of a greeting.

"Everybody runs out of Scotch eventually," he replied.

She smiled self-assuredly. "I'm Molly."

"I know," Will prodded the glass. "You own a shop in town."

There was a sadness in her eyes that he couldn't place then, an ache for someone lost and no delusion of them ever being found. The smile on her face was genuine though. Molly was not here to recreate the past; she was hopeful and optimistic about the future. With Will.

"You should get back to your friends now," he warned her.

"I'm not actually here with anyone."

"You're here for me," Will said flatly.

"I'm here _with _you," she corrected him, holding up her glass. "Cheers."

* * *

Wolf Trap, Virginia

"I don't think the horse would have come through here," Will said. The branches were far too thick for even them to pass through.

Molly finally stopped charging, though it was against her nature not to press forward. "He couldn't have gotten far," she sighed. She scanned the trees, dismissing them quickly for any sign of a staggering horse.

Her desperation piqued Will's interest. Eastern equine encephalitis was a killer. "You're looking for a dead animal," Will remarked pointedly.

"Not dead yet," Molly answered. Hands on her hips, eyes straight ahead, she looked so certain. Somewhere out there was a horse that she had decided to help. There was no knocking her off-course now.

* * *

Marathon, Florida

Molly was claiming him slowly: first with the Scotch, then with her fingers. She started inching her hands closer to him on the bar, and then gently, gingerly brushed her fingertips over his wrist bone.

Will's breath caught in his throat. "I'm no good for you," he said, sounding as confident as she looked.

She flashed him a small hint of a smile and played with the neck of her beer bottle. "I don't ever come to this bar. Ever."

"You never came to the beach before you saw me either."

"I didn't come in here because I saw you." She wasn't lying, though the pink flush on her cheeks reaffirmed her interest. "I didn't come to the beach for you either. That's two coincidences too many for me though. Not that I believe in coincidence."

Her eyes drifted towards the monitor above the bar at long last. Baseball. She eyed the score sadly, mournfully, though her smile never faded.

Will felt the stab of loss, sharp as death, in his heart, "I'm trying not to."

* * *

Wolf Trap, Virginia

The spooked gelding's body was steaming in the chilly air. He began to rear when Molly emerged from the trees. Will reached out to pull her back, but she placed a hand on his chest to protect him. "Hey, beautiful," she said pleasantly to the horse. Her hand dropped from Will's chest and stretched out towards the frightened animal.

The horse reared.

* * *

Marathon, Florida

Will paid the bill, including her Scotch. "Nice to see you again, Molly," he was being at least halfway honest too.

She tossed back the rest of her whiskey. Her hand landed on his wrist, "You too."

He didn't rebuff her immediately. Being touched reminded Will that he was still alive, still present. It wasn't until Molly pulled her hand away that he realized she wasn't looking to save him either. She stared mortality square in the face and was looking for someone with whom to share her heartbeat. Will wore impending doom in every feature; he was the best partner for the end of all things.

* * *

Wolf Trap, Virginia

Molly ripped off her coat. The cold left her breathless. She strode toward the horse with her jacket in her hands. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay," she spoke soothingly. The horse backed away from her, forelegs stomping, threatening.

Will eased his way in her wake. She was going to get stomped to death. "Don't…" he warned her.

Molly wasn't listening. Her hands moved towards the horse, offering the coat like an olive branch.

* * *

Marathon, Florida

They left at the same time, and for the first half block, Molly was never more than ten feet behind Will. He turned and looked back only once before stopping. "I'm no good for you," he told the nighttime sky.

"Only one way to find out."

Will turned back to look at her. Molly shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She hugged herself against the chill but kept one hand slightly poised towards Will.

* * *

Wolf Trap, Virginia

"Come here," Molly urged. She drew her coat up to neck height. "Come on…"

The gelding shuddered, terrified, but was no longer stomping.

Will found himself inching with her.

* * *

Marathon, Florida

She was just so direct. One look at her and Will knew exactly where the night was headed. Knew he was safe, that she was strong enough to keep the monsters at bay. Molly was a woman for whom time was static. She lived absolutely in the present, moment by moment. If he walked away, she would too, without looking back.

* * *

Wolf Trap, Virginia

The horse stayed its ground. Molly shifted closer. Her hands were shaking under the jacket, but she never stopped moving.

* * *

Marathon, Florida

Will walked slowly in her direction.

* * *

Wolf Trap, Virginia

Molly draped her jacket over the horse's head and hugged his snout, whispering sweet nothings as she did.

Will's head fell silent: the buzzing, the hum of ideas, the steady stream of feeling emanating from the startled horse and Dr. Foster. All he could hear was Molly's breathless promises, "It's okay. It's okay…"

* * *

Marathon, Florida

"Is this okay?" she asked as she reached for the bottom of his shirt.

Will drew a shaky breath. He scanned the messy interior of his trailer, fixing his gaze on the door instead of on her flushed face, her fervent stare. She would leave if he told her. They could end this.

…but there was no turning back. Time registered as a steady progression of moments. Will would have to contend with the memory of her hands, her lips, her eyes; he would have to negotiate with the perspective she'd given him. That there was no saving the either of them, not from darkness or death, but there was comfort in being held in one's final moments.

* * *

Wolf Trap, Virginia

The horse dropped to his knees only a few yards from its paddock.

Molly tore her coat from his eyes and wrapped her arms around his head. Her hands drew long strokes on his fevered neck and face.

* * *

Marathon, Florida

"Yes," Will said, guiding his shirt up from his hips. "Yes, this is okay."

* * *

Happy reading!

Additional notes:  
In the book, Molly is a widow. Her first husband played baseball, which she watches when she is sad.

Also in the book, Will's abdomen is horribly scarred in his confrontation with Hannibal.


	4. A Tale of Two Cities

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: "If space is infinite then there's tons of yous out there and tons of mes."

"I like that thought. Somewhere out there, I'm having a good time." (_Rabbit Hole_)

Two different Molly Fosters. Two different Will Grahams. Just two out of innumerable possibilities. AU.

Author's Notes: I had half a mind to scrap this whole fic, start it back at square one, and I still might go back and play around with my prose a bit. The inspiration was just lacking for the past couple of weeks. The new episodes are constantly reshaping my ideas about Will, about the way that he handles relationship. And then, yesterday, the show was renewed for a third season, Will and Hannibal spoke about fatherhood, and this chapter just…clicked. I hope it works.

Some dialogue in this chapter appears in another of my fics – _5 Reasons_.

* * *

A Tale of Two Cities

-Sugarloaf Key, Florida-

The lace curtains cut dimples in the sunlight and cast waves over the rumpled sheets. Molly Foster occupied the brightest spot, face buried deep in her pillow, as her naked back, arms, and exposed calves drank in the morning. She had reserved the shadowy spots on the bed for Will out of kindness, his sleep habits – or lack thereof – being apparent from their first encounter.

He spent several long minutes studying her, forming constellations from the freckles on her upper back. His gaze eventually drifted to the bedroom, her bedroom, a place he hadn't studied much before plunging into the bed. Molly had little time for trinkets and was largely unsentimental with regards to interior design. Her furniture was pragmatic – bed for sleeping, wardrobe and vanity for dressing. She had a few pictures, some local art, and the occasional salvaged item dotting her shelves. From these, Will clarified his profile of her: Molly's parents were deceased but she had found surrogates, an elderly couple, family friends perhaps. She owned one clock but kept it face down on the night table; time was no longer a concern. She had been married and happily; she was no longer and didn't want to talk about it unless asked.

The downstairs creaked with sounds of life: footsteps and cupboard doors, dishes rattling against the table. Molly mumbled something, grabbed the blanket, and ducked underneath, claiming a few moments for herself from the grand scheme of things. Will rose slowly from the bed, curious. There was no evidence of anyone else living in the house, though his attention had been decidedly elsewhere last night.

No sooner was he standing, Will was struck by the distant sound of a screen door opening, of keys jangling in struggle with an arthritic lock. He cast a paranoid glance over his shoulder. The sound was so impossibly real, at once present in the room with him and yet so distant – both in time and space. That was the sound of his door opening in Wolf Trap. Those were footsteps on his old floorboards. His dogs were barking, sniffling, whining. A chill rattled through Will.

Someone was wandering over his grave.

* * *

-Wolf Trap, Virginia-

There were _so many dogs_.

Molly was overwhelmed before she had kicked her boots off. She ended up at the centre of a melee. Tongues, paws, scruffs, and noses rushed up to greet her, desperate as only dogs can be for new loyalties. She couldn't tell who she had and hadn't petted until the crowd finally dispersed, satisfied, and resumed hovering.

"Hey, Winston," she inspected him visually. The gash on his foreleg is healing nicely. All the stitches were intact, which was surprising given that Winston isn't wearing a cone. Most dogs would have chewed through their own torso with those kinds of odds. This would be easier than she thought. Appointment over; housesitting could begin.

She was on her tip toes all the way to the kitchen; the floors felt bitterly cold under her feet. The dogs didn't seem to notice. They milled about in anticipation of love and food. Molly couldn't get more than a couple of steps without one bumping into her. She hurried the last of her steps to the back door, threw it open, and let them all outside for a run. Winston was careful to pace himself, she noticed, though he was nonetheless excited to be moving.

The silence of the house alarmed her almost as much as the cold. Molly's ears rang from the quiet, from the stillness. Old as the house was, it betrayed nothing, and possessed an uninhabited quality that cold-clawed at her brain stem. She had grown up on a farm, but there were always sounds there: horses in the stables, cattle, some sheep during her teen years; Dad and his team of underling marching to and fro, the spurs rattling on their boots; Ma's pickup roaring sickly down the driveway. There was no doubt in her mind that Will had chosen the silence for a reason, but Molly's heart ached from the thought. There were only a few kinds of people who would choose to be this far removed from the world. Will Graham was of the uncomfortable sort: sad but not hopelessly so. He kept his life as small and secret as possible from everyone but himself.

She looked past the obvious then, narrowing her view to the pieces instead of the whole. Will's presence could be felt along the handles of his knifes and the slits in his cutting board. He lingered in the scents of salt and coffee, in the sheer neatness of the space. When she walked back into the living room, Molly found herself picking him out from the immaculately-kept workbench. His fishing lures spoke of a meticulous craftsman, an intricate mind, and a deep appreciation for solitude.

The floorboards creaked suddenly. A shadow formed in Molly's periphery but was gone the second she looked up.

"Hello?"

Dead silence.

* * *

-Sugarloaf Key, Florida-

Will walked as far away from the chills as he could. He didn't get further than the bottom of the stairs.

There was a boy at the breakfast table. Seven, eight, maybe? He had Molly's hair, eyes, and chin, but he got his cheeks and shoulders from his father. He glanced up from his cereal, and no amount of clothing could defend Will against the lad's penetrating stare.

The chills gathered at the base of Will's spine again. A shadow hovered in his periphery; he ignored it. "Hello," he mustered.

The boy poked at his cereal. "Hi," his tone was flat, but that didn't mean he was uninterested. He turned slightly in his seat and kept staring through the corners of his eyes.

Will couldn't shake the ghost from Wolf Trap following him around. He unburdened himself, "I'm Will." The footsteps echoed on in his brain.

"Hi," the boy said again. "Good to meet you."

"Oh," Molly appeared on the stairs behind Will. She beamed through a yawn and a scrub of her face. "Good morning, sunshine."

"Morning, _Mom_," the emphasis was for Will.

She rubbed a hand on Will's shoulder on her way into the kitchen. "You heading out?"

"Yeah," the boy absorbed her touches to the top of his head. He sat patiently through her kiss to his temple, her clutching his shoulders. Molly was reassuring herself that he was still there with her, that everything she cared about in the world was still within reach. Pictures were meaningless; they were lies, taunts, teases. She needed tangible, living things. Her house was a conservatory.

* * *

-Wolf Trap, Virginia-

The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. Molly hugged herself on a search for the thermostat. The cold had to be phantom, a response to the solitude instead of the actual temperature. She was not alone, and yet she had to be. There was no one else but the dogs for miles in any direction.

She found the dog food on her travels and distracted herself by filling the bowls. Kneeling on the floor, Molly forced her mind to stop. She was being silly, letting the silence get to her like this. The floor wasn't as cold on her knees as it felt on her toes. She wasn't disconnected; she was looking for ways to fill the silence, and ghosts seemed like a logical conclusion.

They weren't the right conclusion, not in the least because they didn't exist. There was life here in Will's house but only in controlled amounts. Molly was used to inviting the whole universe into her; Will wanted to keep as much of the world out as possible. The world was a hard beast to keep caged though. Eventually pieces found their way through the bars.

Pieces like the person standing in the open doorway to the kitchen. Molly nearly jumped out of her own skin. She pressed a hand over her heart to keep it in her chest. One blink though and the person was gone, replaced again by the empty air. Nevertheless, her memory still bore the imprint of Will Graham standing, staring through her, looking older and exhausted than he did at the office.

She replaced the dog food in the hallway cupboard. Cup of tea. She needed a cup of tea.

* * *

-Sugarloaf Key, Florida-

"When will you be back?" Molly asked, fingers laced over her son's head.

"Three. Four-ish."

"Good," she kissed her son again. "The motor's fixed on the boat now. I thought we'd take it out tonight."

"You fixed the motor?"

Will nodded. The boy let his guard down a little, having made a decision based on that information alone. Fixing the boat motor meant that he wasn't a casual fling. He was reliable, hard-working, and willing to help Mom. "Thanks," the boy said.

Now, Molly made the introductions, "Will, this is my son, Willy."

"Good to meet you, Willy," Will said, nodding.

Willy nodded back, "Likewise."

* * *

-Wolf Trap, Virginia-

"Oh."

There was a man in the kitchen. Molly hadn't heard him come in over the ringing in her ears. His sharp dress was a stark contrast to the rugged simplicity of Will's house. He did not appear at all surprised to see her, though he said nothing, like he had forgotten his lines. Molly took the liberty of starting the conversation, "Hello. Can I help you with something?"

"I'm a friend of Will Graham's," the man replied quickly. He glanced around the kitchen. "I knew he was out of town for a few days, and he normally asks me to mind the dogs for him."

"Oh, I'm sorry," though for what Molly had no idea. Something about the man demanded deference. "I was just coming by today to check on Winston anyways though, and Will asked if I wouldn't mind feeding them too."

He paused just long enough for her to notice but not long enough for Molly to know why. "I'm terribly sorry to have startled you," he gave her a slight nod.

Molly extended her hand, "Not at all. I'm Molly Foster, Will's veterinarian."

"Hannibal Lecter. A pleasure."

"Likewise," she withdrew her hand. Her fear of the house began to quell. "I was just about to put the kettle on. Can I interest you in a cup of tea?"

"I couldn't impose," Lecter said politely.

"No imposition," Molly felt her fears subside. She tried to hide the flush in her cheeks.

Lecter smiled warmly. His eyes still had the look of cold steel. "If you insist."

* * *

-Sugarloaf Key, Florida-

Molly walked her son out the front door. "Bye," Willy said out of courtesy. Will waved and watched the two through the screen. This wasn't the usual turn of events, not that Molly and his relationships had been usual. He would have expected her to mention her son by now. Then again, her failure to mention Willy spoke to a larger feature of Molly's character. She was a planet, carrying her whole world with her everywhere she went. She lived her life on a collision course, and Will had just so happened to get caught in her gravitational pull. Being with her required a plunge straight into the torpor of her reality.

"I didn't know you had a son," Will said when she re-entered the house.

Molly shrugged. "Well, I do," she smiled, and then placed her hands on her hips. "Is that a problem?"

Will was already falling and enjoying every second of it. "No. No, it's uh…it's the opposite actually."

He found himself smiling too. Sadly, but still.

Molly beamed. "Good," on to other things, "Breakfast?"

* * *

Happy reading!


	5. Through the Looking Glass

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: "If space is infinite then there's tons of yous out there and tons of mes."

"I like that thought. Somewhere out there, I'm having a good time." (_Rabbit Hole_)

Two different Molly Fosters. Two different Will Grahams. Just two out of innumerable possibilities. AU.

Author's Notes: Worlds are colliding.

* * *

Through the Looking Glass

-Great Falls, Virginia-

Will shot a glance between the police cruiser and the porch he was standing on. There was a police officer at his side and another woman standing in the open doorway, watching him, waiting. An explanation eluded him. Will had no idea where he was, much less what he was doing there. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep _in a bed_, not on a porch.

"Will, are you okay?"

He swallowed hard. "Where am I?"

The officer spoke around Will, "We told him on the way over."

"I think he just woke up," she stepped into view.

Will squinted, scrubbed his face, tried to clear his vision. The woman was Molly but…not. Younger. Fewer freckles. Even the dark couldn't account for the changes. Will knew Molly owned strictly tank tops and boxer shorts for sleeping (on the occasions she wore clothing to bed). This Molly was wearing flannel pants and a hoodie from Colorado University. "I didn't know you graduated," was all Will could say.

Molly nodded. She no longer thought he was awake. "That is how I got my degree."

"I didn't know you had a degree."

She looked towards the officer. "You found him walking?"

"Just wandering through the neighbourhood," the officer replied. "He mentioned your name."

Molly turned back to Will. Her confusion subsided or was, at the very least, no longer important. "Come on inside," she said, holding open the door. "Thank you, officer."

"No problem, Doc," the officer marched off the porch back to her cruiser.

Will stood dumbly on the porch. He hugged himself against the chilly air. "I'm sorry," he didn't know what else to say.

"Don't be," Molly replied. She was still holding the door open, but Will couldn't remember how to walk. He was still trying to catch up with everything that had happened while he was asleep. Maybe he was still asleep. The only plausible explanation was that this was a dream. A very vivid dream, if the cold was any indication. "Come inside." He tried not to jump when she placed her hand on his shoulder.

The foyer had the same uncanny appearance as Molly did. Her décor was still sparse and tended towards antiquities. There were frivolities here that Molly he knew wouldn't have tolerated though. Pictures, paperbacks, two beautiful but impractical jackets: he was dreaming of an earlier incarnation of the same woman, or perhaps a completely different incarnation. He hadn't decided.

She welcomed him into the living room, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders as he dropped onto the couch. Will was wearing nothing but his boxer briefs and a t-shirt. His feet were a mess of cut, scrapes, and dirt. Molly paid absolutely no mind. She drifted into the kitchen, ran the tap, and returned with a bowl of warm water.

"I put the kettle on," she admitted somewhat embarrassedly. Her blush pinked out her freckles all the way to the tops of her ears. Will watched as she sank down in the chair across from him. "Have you been drinking tonight?"

"Yes," Will stared at her, still processing. She wasn't built from the same pieces as the Molly Foster he knew. She had all the time in the world to sit and wait for answers. "Not enough to black out."

"Did you black out?"

"Yes." And time travelled. Or space travelled. Will tugged the blanket tighter around him.

"Do you have a history of sleepwalking?"

"I didn't know Colorado had a medical program."

"I went to a veterinary program, you know that," she was getting concerned again. "Are you awake, Will?"

"No," he laughed. "No, I'm not."

Young Molly was even more concerned now. She placed the water on the floor. "Those cuts need to be cleaned," she said.

Will watched as she wrung out a cloth, searching for any trace of the woman he knew. "You're a veterinarian," he stated. The words felt wrong on his tongue. Molly – the Molly he knew, the _real_(?) Molly – cared deeply for animals, but she didn't have the patience for postsecondary. "You're…my veterinarian."

She stopped reaching for his foot and stared at him. Will stared back. In real life, he was still working on meeting her gaze, but in a dream, he felt confident. Molly didn't feel the same way. She looked more concerned from the eye contact than he usually did. "Did you take anything else with the alcohol?"

"No."

"Do you have a history of sleepwalking?"

"Not for years." Maybe. Will didn't know what year it was supposed to be. His subconscious had never played a game like this before. He was used to ethereal images, to Jungian symbols, to grotesque re-enactments of murder. Sleepwalking to a bizarro version of his occasional bedmate was just about the strangest dream he ever had. "What do you know about me, Doctor Foster?"

Molly didn't know where to begin. She caught his foot in her hand and scrubbed clinically at the arch, taking her time with the widest of the gashes. The water felt surprisingly real. Will wondered if he would wake up to a flooded trailer. "I know you work for the FBI."

Will's brow furrowed. "I've…never told you that."

But this wasn't Molly: this was a representation of his subconscious. He fell silent again.

"You mentioned it in passing," she shrugged. "You love dogs, especially strays. You also love to fish. I don't think you like people much. Your house is pretty remote."

"You've been to my house?"

Molly put his foot down gently. She raised her hands in mild surrender and kept her eyes on the floor. "I think I need to get you to a hospital," she rose from her chair and headed to the kitchen, stopping only when the confusion became too much to bear. "I've known you for six months, Will. Admittedly, it's been a weird six months, but I…we…"

He didn't her to say anything more. Evidently, his projection of her overlapped with details he knew from his present circumstances. Will held his tongue for a long moment as she aired her grievances with every breath. "I'm dreaming," Will said finally, reassuring them both. Real or not, he couldn't bear to absorb the hurt on her face as his own.

"You said you had nightmares. I didn't know they were this severe."

"What else did I say?" maybe the purpose of this was self-discovery. His brain had concocted a mirror in which to see himself, to reflect on the scarred and empty shell he had become.

"Nothing. You don't tell me anything," Molly dropped her hands on her hips. Will wasn't surprised: he had always been good at keeping secrets from himself. "Look, I know you've been seeing a psychiatrist. Should I call him instead?"

The wind was knocked clean out of Will's chest. His hands shook under the blanket. Everything about the dream was far too real: first the cold, then the water, now the dread creeping its way up from the scar across his stomach. "You know about my psychiatrist," he repeated. The taste of blood bubbled at the base of his tongue.

Molly blanched but held her ground. "He stopped by the house when I was feeding the dogs. I didn't want to say anything. You barely mentioned it before."

"You _know_ my psychiatrist."

"We had lunch together."

The bonds holding his chest went slack. All of a sudden, Will couldn't catch his breath. He waited for the crushing blow of the dream: the image of Molly slashed to pieces, her ear emerging from his throat, Hannibal Lecter charging out of the kitchen. His ears rang with Abigail's shrill scream, and the scar burned hot, loud, and angrily from his stomach.

Molly disappeared. The ringing disappeared. Will forced himself to hold his breath. He didn't want to see; he had already seen too much. He clenched his eyes closed so tightly they hurt.

The world was very much as he left it when he opened them. Strange-Molly's living room with its strange, youthful touches: she emerged from the kitchen with a mug of tea in one hand, her phone in the other.

"Don't call Dr. Lecter," Will commanded her.

"You need to have your head examined," she replied, handing him the tea. "You're undergoing some kind of major neurological event here."

"I'm not _insane_," he knew better than that now. This Molly-shaped version of his younger self, this projection of his anxieties, this dream figure was playing on old fears. Hannibal Lecter and mental illness: really. Will had laid those horrors to rest six feet under in a stone cell at Baltimore Psychiatric Hospital.

"I'm not saying you're insane," Molly corrected herself, "but how am I more worked up over this than you? You're found sleepwalking in my neighbourhood – ten miles from home. You can't remember key details about my personal history. You have gray hair. You're still insisting that you're dreaming."

"I have to be dreaming." This couldn't be real.

"Why?"

Will had never tried to tell a person in his dreams that they weren't real. His subconscious was usually very aware of its artificiality, informed as it might be by reality. He parsed through the mixed messages: first Hannibal, then the age gap, then the fact that it was her, Molly, a woman who picked him up from the bar in Florida. "Because," he stared right through her, back to Florida, "because good things don't happen to me. Not my psychiatrist, not walking ten miles in the dead of night with no memory. Not you."

The expression that crossed her face was as much a shock to Will's system as the cold he experienced upon waking. Molly was an emotional chimera and none of her feelings suited her. In a few years, she would be suspicious of such a line. She would be curious; she would prod. He didn't know how to imagine her any differently from that. Molly had always been a very practical being. This Molly was young, she was idealistic. She wanted to believe Will, and while he meant what he said, Will was hiding so much that she was too sympathetic to ask about.

"I can't dream you like this," he admitted breathlessly.

There it was: the suspicion. The desperation for truth. "I'm calling your psychiatrist," she said.

Just like that, Will woke up.

* * *

-Marathon, Florida-

He tore off the blankets. The trailer was buzzing with activity. His dogs were yelping, whining, terrified. Will shot up, searching the dark for intruders, only to realize that he was the intruder. They were barking at him, about him, for him. Will reached out for them, but they recoiled from his scent.

His vision flashed with impossible images: nighttime in Virginia, wind whistling through evergreen trees; damp earth and asphalt; cold, shadows, and Molly, five years younger, in a Columbia sweat shirt, planning to call Hannibal Lecter. Will threw on the bedside lamp and relished the burn against his retinas. He was welcomed home with the sight of his own trailer back in reality, back in his real life, where his dreams were filled with normal things like psychopaths and murder most foul.

Several deep breaths helped him settle enough to sleep again. The dogs were willing to approach him by that point too, which helped put Will at ease even more. He tugged a towel free from the rack nearby, scrubbed his face and hair, and then covered his pillow. The nightmares hadn't been this bad since his illness.

Will turned off the light, and then immediately turned it back on again. He kicked to wake himself up.

Both his feet were dirty.

* * *

Happy reading!


End file.
